Young Man with a Horn

My name is Willie Willoughby,

but they call me Smoke.

I play piano in a run-of-the-mill dance band.

Kind of monotonous.

But there were times when I got my kicks,

not so long ago, either,

like when I palled around with Rick Martin,

the famous trumpet player.

What a guy.

We were in the thankless business

of piecing little notes and phrases of music together

into a mumbo jumbo that somehow turned out to be jazz.

Strictly off-the-cuff, but a lot of fun.

'Course, Rick is practically a legend now.

People ask me about him and those times.

Ordinarily, I don't talk much about it...

but I think a lot about it.

He had a lot of friends.

In a way, he had no friends at all.

He was a lonely kind of guy, always,

I guess from the time he was a kid.

He never knew his father.

And his mother died when he was nine or 10,

so he went to live with his sister.

He did a lot of traveling for a kid his age.

From Missouri...

on through Texas...

Oklahoma...

and finally, California.

He never did get much out of school,

and he made very few friends along the way.

Why don't you go out and play with the other kids or something?

Hanging around the house day after day.

Ya hungry?

No.

Well, after you eat, don't forget to put the bread back in the bread box

so the ants don't get it.

Yes.

What's wrong with you?

Nothing.

Well, I haven't got time, now, Joe will be here any minute.

But I'll tell you one thing,

either you gotta go back to school or you gotta get a job.

You just can't do nothing.

Hey, Marge, that man's here.

Hiya, Rick. Come on, let's go, honey. We're late.

I told you I'd be ready, didn't I?

Gee, you look like a million.

Don't forget. The bread in the box.

So long.

There's this little Chinese place

on the corner of Second and Flower I was thinking of trying.

Now, my friends, the Good Lord has provided.

There will be a hot meal served in the next room.

The story goes that by the time it got dark,

he could play the piano.

He could play the whole song.

After that, he had a place to go to

and something he really wanted to do.

And for a while, he wasn't quite so lonely anymore.

Hey! You've been banging that piano every night.

Now, get out of here!

Excuse me.

Hello, sir.

Which one's the cheapest?

You mean the instruments?

Yes, sir.

Well, let me see. I think the trumpet.

I can let you have this one for about nine dollars.

You play a trumpet?

No, but I can learn.

I started to learn piano.

Well, a piano's a little different.

So you're a musician, eh?

If I had one of those, I could carry it with me

and play it anytime I wanted.

You got the money?

No, but I can get a job.

Well, now, I think maybe you are a musician.

Yes, sir.

And that kid out there,

he had a perfect ear for it.

He could hear it, and he could feel it.

It hit that boy right where he lived.

Well, look at this.

How about that?

Hey, fellas, let's take a little breather for a few minutes.

What're you doing there, boy? What do you want?

Excuse me. I was just listening to the music.

Do you like the way we play?

Oh, sure.

Kind of late for you to be out, though, isn't it?

No school tomorrow.

Oh?

Well, you better come on in

if you want to hear some music.

Thanks.

Will you join us in a small collation?

A ham sandwich, perhaps,

Mister...?

Martin. No, thanks.

Oh, but you gotta.

You can't listen to music on an empty stomach.

- - Thanks.

You're sure your folks won't care?

I don't have any real folks.

My sister wouldn't know if I came in or not.

Oh, I see.

Gentlemen, this is Mr. Martin.

He says he likes our music.

Pleased to meet you.

- Hi. - Hi.

Well, Mr. Martin, what would you like to hear?

Would you want to play--

I don't know what you'd call it, but it goes like this.

You know, where you start off,

and then the clarinet comes in, and then the others,

but you finish alone.

That's "Moanin' Low."

How do you know who comes in where?

I can hardly remember myself most times.

You a musician, Mr. Martin?

Oh, I kind of play the piano a little.

Oh, a piano player, huh?

Yes, but what I really want to learn is the trumpet,

like you.

You hear that?

Mr. Martin knows talent when he hears it.

Well, what are we waiting for? "Moanin' Low."

Have a chair, Mr. Martin. Sit down.

Thank you, Mr. Hazzard.

Good luck, maestro.

Thanks.

Have a cigar, Mr. Hazzard.

It's a two-bit one.

Well, shut me up if it isn't.

Thank you, Mr. Martin.

[playing variations on "Moanin' Low" theme]

If he had to be a trumpet player, he was pretty lucky

because he couldn't have bought

what he learned from Art Hazzard.

That's the way it started,

and there was no way of stopping it or changing it.

He couldn't see anything but notes

and he couldn't hear anything but his trumpet.

He was cut out to be a jazzman

the way the righteous are chosen for the church.

Boy, you're playing a little sharp on the high notes.

You're getting a roll. Not bad yet, but on the way.

What do I do wrong?

You're dropping your mouthpiece too low on your lower lip.

Once you get that roll, boy, it closes up your lips

and gives you a choked feeling in your throat.

And you get tired after a half hour of steady playing.

Try it again.

It was about then that he started playing two ways.

One way for money,

what there was of it,

and one way for himself.

That was his way of talking.

Well, hello, Mr. Hazzard.

How am I doing?

Doing pretty good.

Hey, you don't sound as if you mean it.

What am I doing wrong?

Nothing.

What's the matter, Pops?

Did you know we're going on the road?

No, I didn't. How long will you be gone?

Booker's got a good deal for us in New York.

We been figuring on staying there,

maybe for good.